


grab his arm and whisper, "yo, this one's ours"

by Splatx



Series: Harper: bastard, orphan, son of a whore [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Family Feels, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27377203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splatx/pseuds/Splatx
Summary: Then one day they woke up, looked at each other, and Bill had asked Javier out to lunch.But then Bill had ridden out to meet up with an associate of Dutch’s, taken one look at the dark haired, dark eyed young man, his long fingers wrapped around a pistol, and known he was in deep shit.
Relationships: Bill Williamson/Reader, Javier Escuella/Bill Williamson, Javier Escuella/Bill Williamson/Reader, Javier Escuella/Reader
Series: Harper: bastard, orphan, son of a whore [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999861
Kudos: 14





	1. and i'm helpless

Bill was well aware he had a type.

Dark hair and dark eyes as well, a killer smile and long fingers (god, but he went weak kneed over long fingers).

So when he met Javier… well, he was _gone._ His pa had tried to beat ‘the invert’ out of him, and he’d given in, once, in the military to a man with dark hair and the most beautiful eyes, fingers that danced on his rifle and lips that curled on a feral smile with each shot. The man had fooled him though, led him to an ambush, and he’d been beaten half to death.

For his deviancy, and for bashing the man’s head in, he’d been dishonorably discharged - and was lucky he hadn’t been hanged.

For three years after, he’d only fallen into bed with women. Women with dark hair and dark eyes, fingers that were long and nimble, their lips too plump and their grins too pretty.

Then he’d been taken in by Dutch, taken one look at Javier, and _hated_ him. Hated him for the dark hair he wanted to tug on, the fingers that plucked at his guitar’s strings and fluttered rapidly at Five Finger Fillet, hated him for being _absolutely perfect_ though he’d turned out not to be, and turned to lashing out - if Javier hated him then, surely, he couldn’t put himself at risk of being kicked out for deviancy again?

Though sometimes, when he got _really_ drunk, he’d catch himself looking too long, had once, even, eyed up Dutch, unable to look away from the man’s fingers.

The next day, he’d been so horrified he hadn’t been able to look the man in the eye.

  
  


When he and Javier first fell into bed together, they’d both been drunk as skunks, having to share a hotel room after robbing a wagon together.

Then it happened again, and again.

And then they’d been sharing a bed more often than not.

Then one day they woke up, looked at each other, and Bill had asked Javier out to lunch.

  
  


But then Bill had ridden out to meet up with an associate of Dutch’s, taken one look at the dark haired, dark eyed young man, his long fingers wrapped around a pistol, and known he was in deep shit.


	2. looks, proximity to power

If it weren’t for Brown Jack, Bill would have frozen.

In a fancy black and red outfit (and oh! A gleaming red sash around his waist showed off how tapered it was, and he couldn’t look away) he cut a striking figure, like a hero in one of Mary-Beth’s books. Broad shoulders and, even from a distance, he could make out his sleeves rolled up to bare his forearms, and he had to clear his throat and look away or risk very obviously giving away his interest, instead scanning the area around them.

The man had set up a camp - a basic little bed roll next to what could generously be called a campfire, and what was one of the most eye-catching horses Bill had ever seen, even more-so than The Count, well towering over the man even while standing, cremello coat gleaming and head oddly shaped. It eyed them warily, ears perked and hooves shifting, but stayed in place.

  
  


“Uncle Dutch!” the man called, flashing a grin sharp as the edge of a knife and _fuck_ Bill was gone, JavierJavierJavier he loved Javier still did but god he _wanted_ this man, wanted his marks on his skin and his fingers on his cock and his moans in the air and _shit_ he shifted on Brown Jack’s back uncomfortably, clearing his throat.

The man’s eyes, brown as the finest coffee, darted over and that grin was turned on him and _shit_ he hoped he wasn’t going red it damn well felt like it.

“Been a long time son!” Dutch chuckled, swinging out of The Count’s saddle and Bill and Charles followed suit,

“It has! Way too long, been keeping up with y’all in the papers though.”

“So have I, damn shame what they did to you.” Dutch scowled, his voice going dark,

“Well, what can you do? Got me started with all this and I wouldn’t change it for anything.” the man shrugged and, when Dutch went to open his mouth, shook his head, clearing his throat and looking at Bill and Charles pointedly, “So, you gonna introduce me to your friends?”

Dutch inclined his head, gesturing, “Of course, of course! This is Charles Smith, and this is Bill Williamson! You wouldn’t have met them yet, Charles only joined up about nine or so months ago, and Bill ended up with us about four years ago.”

The man grinned, swooping into a grandiose bow that wouldn’t look out of place on Trelawny, “Nice to meet you both! I’m Harper McKay, please call me Harper.”

Dutch looked very put-upon as he said, “Please forgive him, his father was a stage actor and, unfortunately, he didn’t just inherit his looks.”

If looks could kill, half of New Hanover would be dead.

Charles chuckled.

“What’s your excuse, Uncle Dutch?” and holy shit that _grin,_ Bill nearly went weak in his knees.

Dutch’s eye twitched, and the man threw his head back, throat working on a howling laugh and Bill _really_ needed to sit, “I think I liked you better when you were a good, proper kid.”

The man smirked, “I thought I was boring then.”

“You were.”

“Love you too, Uncle Dutch.”

He gave a long, exasperated sigh, clapping his hands, “Can we get to work?”

and the man chuckled, sweeping an arm at the campfire, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  
  


They hitched their horses and sat around it, Dutch directly across from Harper and Charles and Bill on either side. Bill struggled not to stare - aware of Charles watching him - though up close he could make out the man’s sharp cheekbones and the freckles that scattered across them.

“So it’s easy enough yeah? Ride across the border, collect the money, ride back, profit! You guys get out, I know my family’s safe.” he shrugged, swigged his canteen, and Bill’s mouth went dry when he saw the muscles bared by his rolled sleeves flex.

_JavierJavierJavier_

_Javier kissing the man_

_The man between Javier’s legs_

_Javier between the man’s legs_

Fuck.

“It’s dangerous,” Dutch sighed, “there are bounty hunters _everywhere,_ they’ll be on the lookout.”

But Harper shook his head, “No, they’re already clearing out. I spend half my time, easy, down in New Austin and that part of West Elizabeth, most dangerous part’ll be keeping away from cougars and things,” he chuckled, “and getting the money itself, of course.”

Dutch scowled, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Still, you need to be careful,”

“I will, Uncle Dutch,”

“We’ll be waiting for you, alright?” Harper pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture that was nearly identical to Dutch, but said,

“Of course, Uncle Dutch, where at?” Dutch paused, expression going thoughtful, and the young man offered, “I know a man, name of Gus MacMillan. He has a camp not far from the crossing, just a bit before the forest. Might be able to ask him if you could wait there?”

“And you trust him?”

“So long as I give him a pelt, he’ll do anything I ask.”

Dutch paused, opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and closed his mouth again, before saying, “Alright then, we’ll wait at ‘Gus’s’ camp.”

“You want me to head out immediately?” he leaned back to rest on his palms, and Bill’s throat clicked on a gulp as he watched the flexing of his muscles,

“No,” Dutch shook his head immediately, “Give it a week, have a look around where the money is, alright? I don’t want you taken by surprise. We’ll meet up at Gus’s camp next Sunday at noon.”

“Yes Uncle Dutch,” he eyed Bill as he swallowed another gulp of water, the man jerking his gaze away.

_JavierJavierJavierJavier_

“You know, it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay for the night? There’s cougars and bears and O’Driscolls out this way.” he offered, and Bill froze.

_Shitshitshit_

“Sounds like a good idea,” Dutch inclined his head, “Mr. Smith, Mr. Williamson, please get settled, I’d like to talk to my nephew.” he stood, Harper doing the same, and walked over to the horses, leaning in together.

  
  


_‘I’m so fucked.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harper's horse is a [Cremello Kladruber](https://www.gtabase.com/igallery/6901-7000/RDR2_Kladbruber_CremelloKladbruber-6947-360.jpg)


	3. that would be enough

“I’ve missed you, son,” Harper grunted as his Uncle Dutch pulled him into a hug, clapping him on the back.

He cleared his throat, “Yeah, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Too long, let me get a look at you,” he drew back, clasping his shoulders and looking over his face, taking in how he’d changed since he’d last seen him - the baby fat had left his bones, leaving him with a sharp, roguish face, his milk mustache replaced with the start of a five o’clock shadow and a dulling scar on his jaw, brown eyes hard in the way only an outlaw’s could be.

His baby nephew wasn’t a baby anymore.

Dutch had never been one for civilization - his dream would be for everyone to live wild and free, as his gang did. But he’d never have wanted any of his blood family - especially not his baby nephew, who’d always been soft, raised up as a good, sweet, church-going kid - to be a part of this type of life, to pick up a gun and rob and thieve and murder, to have blood on their hands.

But he’d ridden into Valentine and nearly had a heart attack when he’d seen a bounty poster for one Harper McKay. A small bounty, admittedly, but a bounty enough to have a poster all the same.

He’d written, frantically, to the nephew he’d fallen out of contact with, received a letter back quickly - _‘Write to Jasper Fairfax please, Uncle.’ -_ and then they’d been writing near every day, getting sent photographs and newspaper clippings, damn near burning the one that Harper had managed to find that detailed his arrest for the murder of one Philip LeClerk, sending him little trinkets from his travels.

  
  


And now he had him in front of him, warmth and flesh and blood, and never wanted to leave him again.

“That they did that to you, shit,” he growled, voice dipping low, and Harper shook his head,

“Nothing that can be done, Uncle Dutch. The man that did it is dead and gone,” and the grin that crawled across his face was cruel, and horribly out of place on the face of the man that he’d watched take his first steps.

“Good,” Dutch said instead of what he wanted to say, unnerved by how much of himself he saw in the man, “You’re certain?”

_“Very,”_

and Dutch shivered - was this how Hosea felt? Something must have shown on his face, as Harper’s softened, grin easing, and he changed the subject, “So…" a stilted silence, "those two, they look strong.”

“They are,” Dutch was glad to brag, more than happy with the subject change, “Some of my strongest, really, except for Arthur.”

Harper’s brows furrowed and he tilted his head, speaking slowly as he strained to remember, “Arthur… I remember him, I think. You brought him with you last time you visited, didn’t you? Tall and lanky, blond hair?”

Dutch burst out with a laugh - he’d forgotten about that, that hadn’t been long after they’d taken Arthur in, he hadn’t been older than sixteen or so, hadn’t been with them more than a few years, and that had been the last time he’d dared visit his relatives, not wanting to put them at risk with his growing bounty. “I _did,_ didn’t I? I’d forgotten that! He’s a lot bigger now, you wouldn’t recognize him. Though,” he frowned, “he wouldn’t recognize you either.”

Harper strained a laugh, “Well, I don’t think he’d _remember_ me, period! I don’t remember that all that well,” a pause, he frowned, “Christ, how old was I? Two, three?”

“I think you were three, you’d just had a birthday, remember? I brought you that little horse figurine, your father was _furious,_ he thought I stole it.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Yes, and?”

That laugh, at least, was real. “I loved that thing, wore it down ‘til it was just a lump of wood,” he shook his head, “but uh, from what I remember Arthur didn’t seem like he wanted to be there at all.”

“Oh he didn’t,” Dutch agreed, “he pitched an almighty fit trying to get us to let him stay back in camp.” he pitched his voice up, tried to mimic Arthur’s pubescent voice, “But _Dutch,_ come on! I dunno anyone! They’re all _proper-like,_ what’ll I have to talk about?”

Harper cracked up, laughing until he had to clutch a stitch in his side, “Oh lord, I can imagine.” he hesitated, tilted his head the other way in thought, “Uncle Hosea! How’s he?”

“Decent,” Dutch grinned, “Old girl’s getting old! We all are,” he made a show of rubbing his back - he felt older than he had in years, seeing his little baby nephew all grown in front of him. Though laughing and joking, reminiscing and seeing him safe… well, it made him feel pretty damn young, too, pretty damn happy, could forget the gang, could forget Blackwater, could forget his responsibilities. Except…

“I wish you’d come to our camp,” he’d tried, over and over, in his letters to get Harper to move to the camp, but every time Harper had denied. He was happy as he was, didn’t want to be tied down, didn’t want to change things.

“Uncle Dutch,” Harper sighed, looking horribly put upon, “You know how I feel about this.”

“I know, son. But I’d feel better if I could talk to you instead of writing, every time it takes longer than normal for me to get your letter I fear you’re dead in a ditch somewhere.” and he did. Though realistically he knew it was just Harper being distracted or busy, or the mail taking longer than normal to be delivered, he couldn’t help but to imagine the boy - at the time, he’d been imagining him as his little kid nephew, of course, hadn’t known him as an adult yet, though of course he knew he was well grown - bloodied and glassy-eyed in a ditch.

“I don’t want to start this again,” Harper shook his head, clenching his jaw, and Dutch bristled, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. They’d gotten into a horrible fight about this exact thing early on, and nearly cut communication over it, and he didn’t dare start another one.

“Alright, son. Just… think about visiting at least?”

In a manner quite similar to what Dutch had just done, Harper closed his eyes, reached up, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a deep breath, “Sure Uncle Dutch, I can do that.”

Well, Dutch could work with that.


End file.
